


Cath Hindman

by amusedrhyme (lazarus_girl)



Series: A Patch of Blue [1]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2020-10-11 20:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20552312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/amusedrhyme
Summary: In the aftermath of an emergency at Nonnatus House, a shell-shocked Valerie reflects on what happened, finding comfort in her bond with Lucille.“Having no choice is no kind of choice at all.”





	Cath Hindman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassiopeiasara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeiasara/gifts).

> Follows canon. Each chapter is built around the significant themes or cases in each series eight episode, presented in broadcast order. It will not shy away from overall series narrative, and is _not_ a fix-it fic. If reading that isn’t for you, then it might be best to skip this one. Written for the lovely @iampenbot and @cassiopeiasara. Big thank you to @pirateboots and @serenajwaterford for editing, advice, and continued encouragement. It wouldn’t be here, in the state it is, without either of you. Title from the the 1965 Guy Green film of the same name, starring Lucille’s favourite, Sidney Poitier. Hopefully, the resonance behind the choice ultimately comes across – it’s not just because of Sidney!

_“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art ... It has no survival value; _  
_rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”_  
— C.S. Lewis, _The Four Loves_.

The mood is sombre.

You should be used to it by now. Loss, that is. And yet, somehow, Cath Hindman and what happened in the bathroom is still on your mind. Still rattling around on an endless loop, so you can pick over what you did or didn’t do right. How very close you came to being carted off in handcuffs alongside Cath, should Sergeant Woolf have dared to leave the confines of the kitchen.

It doesn’t bear thinking about, but you would’ve stood whatever punishment came or still might come. For Cath. For all the women like her. For all the women who didn’t have you at their side in their worst and loneliest hours.

None of them were prepared. Not Cath. Not Lesley, faced with the very real prospect of losing her sister, barely recovered after welcoming her newborn son. Not poor young Sister Frances, fresh from the Mother House and thrown in at the deep end, all the water barrelling in over her head.

There was only one person in that room remotely ready for any of it. You. Once, you looked as terrified as Sister Frances, back against the bathroom tiles, receding into the corner of the room. Wide-eyed, twenty, uniform freshly pressed, with absolutely no idea of what lay ahead.

Sometimes, you still see her when you look in the mirror.

It’s better that way. Ignorance is bliss. Maybe that’s why this is harder, because it was a loss even further beyond your control, but so very different to the men whose bloody injuries you couldn’t stem, illness-ravaged bodies you had no hope of curing, no matter how very hard you tried. So often, the damage had already been done.

Pick yourself up and carry on. That’s what the army taught you to do. There’s always someone else to help. Another emergency to throw yourself into. As Phyllis always says, _“There’s work to be done,”_ or, as your Uncle Pete put it once, _“You gotta roll with the punches.” _It’s made you resourceful and resilient. But, some of that work is harder to let go of. Some of it feels like being knocked out cold, blindsided by a punch you never saw coming. First, there was the oppressive heat of Hong Kong and Private James Connolly (babyfaced, rail-thin). Then, came the cold of Germany, and Captain Thomas Bower (battle-fatigued, bloody beyond recognition). Now Poplar, a few days shy of the Ides of March, and Catherine Hindman (ashen, petrified).

Yet another face you aren’t likely to forget.

If skill, compassion, and hours spent at someone’s bedside were all that were needed, both your careers would be unblemished. Avoidable loss. This was entirely avoidable. Not because you wish you could change Cath’s mind, but because you wish she had the option to change her own. To keep control over her own body. To have more choices that meant she could avoid the terrible, desperate one she was forced into making.

Having no choice is no kind of choice at all.

She didn’t want that child, and now she has no hope ever having any children of her own. Though it saved her life, and you’re glad she’s safe and well, you can’t help thinking that it’s a particularly cruel twist of fate. It’s not often you feel like you haven’t done the best for the women in you care, but tonight, you do. You helped Cath, you know that, but you can’t help feeling like you failed her too.

Your best wasn’t good enough. Not by a long chalk.

“I don’t think there’s enough rum in this after the last few days.”

Suddenly, you remember you’re not alone. Lucille hasn’t really left your side ever since she got back from Lesley and Ned’s yesterday evening. You had to look in the birth ledger to see what the little one was called, tracing the delicate slope of Lucille’s handwriting as you read it back.

_Edward Thomas Whyte, 7 pounds, 8 ounces_.

Cath left Nonnatus hours earlier, headed for St. Cuthbert’s with Sister Julienne for support. Her presence in the bathroom was its own kind of salve – as much for yourself as it was for Cath and Lesley. Despatching Sister Frances to find Sister Julienne was more about giving the poor girl something to do and making her feel useful than getting any more help. After all, there was little more to be done. But, as soon as she arrived, the weight you felt pressing down on your shoulders begun to lift. For all your differences, you’re alike. Loyal, duty-bound. She too knew what to do. She too knew that it was something that had to be done, irrespective of her own feelings and beliefs.

All that mattered was helping Cath. Through all of this, that’s been your guiding principle. Even when you had to face a grilling from Sergeant Woolf in Sister Julienne’s office, you held true to that. Though you’ve questioned just about everything else about what’s unfolded, that you know to be right. That, you know was fair.

“Not nearly,” you offer, glancing over at her and trying to brighten. You need to shake this off. “Got the chocolate bit right though.”

It’s sweeter than you’d take it usually. _For the shock_, you think, absently. You know Lucille’s tricks now. You know the little ways she tries to take care of you without drawing attention.

She smiles, but it’s brief, the corners of her mouth barely curving when she adds, “Maybe a bit more than the cap full next time, barmaid?”

You nod, smiling a little too. It feels strange. The rum is your department. You generally tend to hold back on your measures where Lucille is concerned, since the first time you tried it – strangely giddy with excitement, despite the fact you’ve made it countless times, she declared rather sweetly that it was _“a little too strong.” _Mixing drinks for her is very different to the regulars down _The Black Sail_.

Everything is different with Lucille.

You’re quick to persuade yourselves that it’s always medicinal. Maybe it was, the first time Lucille suggested adding _“a little nip” _to the mug.

Now, you aren’t so sure.

Tonight, her sweet little nod to your brief time behind the bar at _The Black Sail _doesn’t earn the soft laughter it usually gets. Tonight, it feels grim and dangerous, not least because Trixie has felt the need to vacate the room for the second night running._“I’m off to keep Phyllis company.” _She’d said, light, breezy, but not quite completely sincere, pyjamas tucked under her arm.

She looked as tired as you feel. You know that she’s still worried for the Lombardi family, and the health of the smallest triplet. In any other week, Margaret and the babies would be at the forefront of all your minds, but already, too quickly, your concern has been directed elsewhere. Upon her return from Portofino, she made you promise to treat her normally, and not change your behaviour in solidarity, or to cast off drink as some kind of demon, but still, you feel guilty; especially tonight, when it really should be the three of you together, buoying each other up.

If Lucille weren’t here you’re not entirely sure that you’d be able to keep from adding that extra bit of rum right now.

You sit together like bookends on your bed, shoulders touching, in what you’ve come to think of as your natural position. While Trixie was away, Lucille stayed often to keep you company, and to let Phyllis have some time to herself as you all tried to deal with the very obvious lack of Barbara in your lives. You’d listen to records and dance; have a gossip and a giggle. A cocktail and a cigarette or two passed between you. 

You fell into an easy, unspoken rhythm. Steady habits that quickly formed. For a while, you’d forget, and everything felt less terrible. Nonnatus without Barbara and Trixie didn’t feel nearly as empty.

This isn’t really the evening you had planned, much like the ones that preceded it. Your books and magazines are unread. Lucille’s nightly crossword unsolved. Trixie’s latest records unplayed. Your fear and worry over, Sister Monica Joan, then Cath – and somewhere in amongst all that, Lucille out alone in the dark – has blurred in your mind into one long, indistinguishable mess. Once Sister Monica Joan was back at Nonnatus, under Sister Julienne’s care, and Lucille safely returned from the search, you thought the worst was over, lulling yourself far too easily into that false sense of security while you paced up and down in the clinical room, trying to ease Sister Frances’ obvious anxiety as well as your own, with half an ear out for the phone, still very much on duty.

You should’ve known. It was too quiet. There was so much worse to come. That plot with the Milky Bar, part distraction, part welcome gift, would come to feel absurd.

“Are you alright, Valerie?” Lucille asks, gently. You take a deep breath, trying to find some sort of answer, but just end up sighing instead. “Silly of me to ask, I know, but I have to.”

Your immediate thought is: _why? _None of this happened to you. It happened to Cath and Lesley. It happened to Sister Monica Joan. It happened to Private Connolly and Captain Bower.

You feel it when Lucille turns away, moving to put her hot chocolate mug on the bedside table. Your own is only a third empty, the mug still cradled in your hands. The rum isn’t all that warming tonight. You put yours aside anyway, copying her. Your interest in it is long gone.

Somehow, Lucille’s softness, her kindness, her deep care towards you, is still startling. Honestly, you’re not really sure why, because at the same time, it feels like the most natural thing for her to be doing. Equally as right as her sitting on this bed or wearing your dressing gown to stop her from shivering when you wouldn’t let her leave to fetch her own. _“Just have mine.” _You’d said, hours ago, when the cocoa was still hot and you hadn’t sat still long enough for the events of the last few days to settle in. 

Roll with the punches, remember? There’s work to be done.

Lucille’s shivering was, after all that, so very easily remedied, and you didn’t even mind. Not after German winters or The Big Freeze. You’re used to that. Trained for it even. This is easy by comparison. Hiding your feelings, hiding when one of those punches hit instead of missed? Not so easy. Especially not with Lucille around. She notices the black eye it leaves behind. She cares enough to tend to the wound.

You’ll never be used to that.

“I’m fine,” is your reply. Quick. Perfunctory. What everyone expects. You both know it's some sort of lie. When Lucille turns to face you, her face says she views it as one. “Really, I am,” you stress, trying to make her believe it, but, your voice falters, uneven, emotion surging up and betraying you.

In your mind, the dim, but not so distant memory of Brigadier Gillespie flashes up. _“That’s enough of that, Dyer. These men don’t need you weeping and wailing at their bedside. Pull yourself together!” _Then, as now, it makes you steel yourself, holding back from breaking down completely. 

The last thing Lucille needs is you collapsing into a blubbering mess.

You’ve already spoken about how badly you both feel. How you let Cath down. You’ve talked each other out of taking the blame for not seeing any kind of sign, or for realising how quickly Cath’s condition deteriorated. Lucille’s quiet admission that she was with Cath and Lesley the longest, “_So if anyone’s at fault, it’s me,” _just about broke your heart. “_How on earth could we have known_?” was your quick reply, desperate to make her feel better. It’s true of course, but it doesn’t make it any easier to bear. _“Please, don’t blame yourself.”_

Neither of you feel all that absolved. The guilt. The ‘what ifs,’ it’s all there, underneath everything, and there’s no way you’ll begin to take your own advice.

“I don’t know why I can’t just get on with things,” you admit, fiddling with the half smoked pack of cigarettes that sit nearby.

“Oh Valerie,” she sighs, taking the cigarettes and placing her hand over yours as a replacement. “It’s entirely understandable.”

“It didn’t happen to me, did it?” you shrug. She squeezes your hand, and it’s something like comfort.

“But,” Lucille begins, serious and earnest. “You saw it, you were a witness, Valerie. You, Lesley, Sister Frances and Sister Julienne,” she adds, as if you needed the reminder. You’ve never seen her as sad as when she says “Sometimes that’s worse.”

She’s right, deep down, you know that. You’d be more worried if your immediate reaction _wasn’t _to want to cocoon yourself under these blankets, cry, and hide. And yet, doing so feels selfish and indulgent.

Lucille doesn’t speak again for what seems a long time. “I can’t begin to know what you’ve been through before all this.” Another pause. “What you’ve seen.”

You think of Private Connelly. You think of Captain Bower. You think of Cath Hindman. Bloody fields. Bloody bed sheets. The bloody floor of the bathroom you scrubbed clean on your hands and knees with Sister Frances. It looks clean, but it’ll never really feel that way. The stain is gone, but the marks left by it aren’t.

If only Cath’s pain, and the shame you know she’ll be made to feel, could be washed away so easily.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” she continues, and you can she has tears in her eyes. “You’re allowed to feel pain, Valerie.”

You heave a breath. On the brink of tears that you still feel you have no real right to shed. “I did what needed to be done.” You breathe out, shakily. Teeth clenched, jaw set, tensed.

“You did.” There it is again. That sweetness. That softness. That gentle look in her eyes that makes everything seem less impossible. “You did it when most people would’ve turned their back on Cath and Lesley.” She lowers her head when she continues. “Out of fear, or judgement, or both.”

You know she doubts herself, just like you, but sometimes, you know that doubt is borne from a very different place.

“I wish you were there with me.” It slips out of your mouth before you realise.

“I wish it too,” she answers quickly. You lace your fingers with hers, and dare to glance over. She just smiles at you, and gives your hand another squeeze. “You should’ve sent Sister Frances to me,” she offers, simply.

You’d be lying if you told her it wasn’t your immediate thought. You’d be telling an even bigger lie if you neglected to say it would’ve made you feel less alone.

That particular truth sits on the tip of your tongue. So close to being told.

“I thought it might attract too much attention,” you reply.

She nods solemnly. “Sergeant Woolf.”

Nothing else needs to be said. The mention of his name and all the weight it carries is enough.

“I would’ve come,” she begins. “Never think you can’t call upon me.”

“Never doubted it for a moment,” you reply, with a small smile, hoping it reassures her.

You know she would’ve helped Cath and taken care of Lesley too. She so often puts her feelings and her faith aside to help the women. To help you. You so often have cause to test her and she never holds it against you. She never refuses. You often wonder why it seems there’s no limit to her patience and her love. You’re not sure if you want to find out whether that’s true.

If one day, she might reach the point of breaking, and finally say no.

It’s not Sister Frances’ fault she was there and not Lucille. It’s just how things turned out. You’re not sure if she’d view it as a simple twist of fate or a stroke of the very worst luck. But, it doesn’t stop you from thinking how much easier it would’ve been to deal with. Lucille is good in a crisis. Calming, and level-headed, and already had a rapport with Cath and Lesley both. She’s still learning too, but she doesn’t need as much handholding. She’s a natural. You complement each other and work well as a team. She’s a good pair of hands. It’s why Sister Julienne and Phyllis pair you so often.

“Thank you for being here now. I know I’m not the greatest company.”

“Where else would I be?” she shrugs, like anything else is ridiculous.

She says it so easily, so simply, that you it chokes you up. “_Lucille_.”

“This is what we do isn’t it?” She nudges your shoulder. “At the end of the day, we find each other.” She lets go of your hand, but instead of moving away, like you think she might, she reaches forward, brushing away the tear that’s rolled silently down your cheek.

You nod, smiling in spite of your tears. “We do.”

“You take care of me, and I take care of you.”

The way she looks at you makes you ache. You’ve never wanted to feel this kind of pain before. It makes your heart feel full to bursting. Better, happier, and more alive than you ever thought possible.

You … love her.

_Oh._

You hope it doesn’t show on your face. You hope she can’t hear that full heart, beating loud and fast, like it's leaping out of your chest and up into your throat.

You love her. You can’t possibly. She won’t. She’ll never.

“Someone has to,” you deflect, smiling. 

Roll with the punches. There’s work to be done.

“That they do,” she replies, sweet and soft. She holds your gaze, searching your face, and everything feels too much all of a sudden. She’s too close and not nearly close enough. “No more tears,” she adds, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek.

You inhale sharply. Not expecting it at all.

It’s just comfort. It’s just to say goodnight. That’s all.

She makes no comment. Somehow, that’s more terrifying.

“Come on, we should get some rest now,” is all she says, moving off the bed and turning toward Trixie’s, turning back the covers. “We’ll be good for nothing. Mrs Dempsey is due any day, and you’re at clinic with Dr Turner.”

You nod even though her back is turned. She’s right; you know she is, but you’re still thinking about that gentle kiss. How you wish she’d do it again. You’re still thinking of all the nights she started in that bed and ended up in yours, and none of it felt wrong. The bed is so much colder without her in it. You miss the comfort and the warmth of her.

“And you get to see your favourite little patient,” Lucille continues, turning to you again as she shrugs off your dressing gown, handing it back.

It takes you a moment or two to snap back to something like normal, and remember that little Colin Meeks will be getting his callipers fitted tomorrow. He’s such a kind, sweet boy, so determined not to let his condition get the better of him. His mother Judy worries so about the world and how he’ll be treated. You’re there to help them both through it. Whatever might entail. He was one of the first patients you took over in Barbara’s stead.

You set the dressing gown on your chair, turn back to the bed, pull back your own covers.

“He might be up and about,” you say, with a smile, wider and fuller than before just at the thought. Just at the _hope_ something good is possible.

“And chasing Sister Monica Joan down for the lollipops I’m sure!” she laughs, taking off her slippers and setting them neatly on the floor next to the bed.

It feels like the whole room lights up. There’s no need for the lamps anymore.

You laugh too. After the last few days, it sounds strange. Wrong even. Just like that, she’s found a way to make you feel better. Find the good, and the glimmer of hope when it felt fainter to you than it’s been for a long time. It makes you brave.

Lucille crosses herself, and you wait while she says her prayers. You know she’d usually kneel and do it properly. You know she scales things back for your benefit. 

“Come in with me?” you ask, cautiously, still hovering by the bed. She looks at you a moment, and you think you’ve made a mistake. Somehow. It seems different to every other time she’s been here with you like this. It _is _different, but not in a way you dare to name. “Trixie never put the hot water bottle in, you’ll freeze!”

She nods in reply, and you feel oddly relieved. Nothing’s changed. Not really. Her face says as much. Everything’s fine. She’s still here.

You take a breath and let it go for now. You can think off this later. You can peddle away the panic and the fear that she’ll reject you in the miles back and forth between Nonnatus House and Leavee Tower. Walk away the very real desire to do more than kiss her on the cheek while you run up and down the stairs to the ladies who live on the higher floors.

“You’re sure?” she asks, sweetly.

Truthfully, you’re not. You don’t want things to change. You don’t want the closeness between you to feel wrong, Ever. But, for a split second, it _seems _wrong. Like you’re not being entirely honest, and for that deceit not to feel like deceit, you want to send her to Trixie’s bed, away to safety, but then she’ll know something’s different and there will be questions - she always asks. She always wants to know. She doesn’t give up as easily as other people, but, you have no answers for her.

You don’t want to think about what love might mean this time. Not now. Not yet.

“Absolutely,” you reply, with a smile. It’s what she’s come to expect. “Come on,” you pat the space next to you on the mattress before getting in yourself. “Always room for two!” 

You’re surprised how quickly you fall back into that easy old rhythm. How easy everything is when you don’t let yourself think what it means. Lucille’s here. She wants to be here when so few people are. She sees you at your saddest and your lowest. You let her in, and it doesn’t feel like you’re letting her too close or displaying something like weakness for doing so.

Lucille would never use love as a weapon against you.

“Now I know you’re feeling more like yourself,” she comments, with a wry look. “Back to bossin’ me about!”

“Well, you know what they say,” you’re grinning now. “Take the girl out the army …”

If only there had been nurses like her when you were serving. If only.

She shakes her head, smiling anyway as she reaches to turn off the light, plunging you both into darkness. “Indeed.”

Your eyes adjust quickly.

While Lucille climbs in, you keep still, you wait. Letting her get settled. It’s a squeeze in this bed, even both of you on your side, but you don’t really care. You’re not about to let Lucille suffer all night because of what other people might deem proper. She needs rest and warmth and that’s that. You pull the covers over you both, and hope it’s enough to stave off the chill. You know her mother would think you too forward, too opinionated and too clever for your own good, should she ever meet you in person, but you also know that Lucille isn’t quite the girl she was when she arrived. As a result, the letters home are a little more economical with the truth than they used to be.

You’re just about to settle and attempt to get more comfortable when Lucille gives a little shriek. “Goodness! Valerie, your feet are like ice!”

“Sorry!” you say, around a laugh, moving your feet away from hers under the covers. As soon as you do, she moves hers back again.

“You’re not a bit sorry!” she laughs too. “I’ll never get used to this cold.”

That’s not a joke by any means. There’s a tinge of sadness to her voice for the first time in a while. You know she suffers. She feels it more, even now she’s acclimatised in so many other ways to living here and leaving the place she used to call home far behind.

This is something else that’s easily fixed. Everything beyond that is so very complicated.

“Here,” you say, wrapping your arm around her before you have a moment to second guess yourself, pressing a little closer. As close as you dare.

“Goodnight, Valerie,” she whispers into the dark. A pause. She covers your hand again, squeezing lightly. She keeps hold. “Sleep well.”

“You too.”

You’re on the edge of sleep when she nuzzles into you, and you hear her let out a contented sigh.

Not for the first time, the last flurry of thoughts that come to you before your eyes are too heavy to keep open any longer, is she belongs here with you like this. Being near her. Holding her. Keeping her warm. You’re taking care of each other, just like she said.

The rights always outweigh the wrongs with Lucille.

Nothing about this is wrong. How could you ever turn away? How could you not care? How could you not love her? How did it take you so long to see it?

Maybe you’re not alone in these thoughts. Maybe you’re not the only one who feels all these things. 

You love her. She might love you too.


End file.
